Sweetest Downfall
by Depraved Doll
Summary: Watson knew that he could never escape Holmes, what he didn't realise was that he didn't really want to, so when he invites the Detective to stay with himself and Mary how long will he be able to avoid his feelings... slash HolmesxWatson
1. Chapter 1

_**Sweetest Downfall**_

_**Disclaimer- **__I own nothing, it's very sad, _

_**Rating- **__M... for later chapters_

_**Summary- **__Watson knew that he could never escape Holmes, what he didn't realise was that he didn't really want to, so when he invites the Detective to stay with himself and Mary how long will he be able to avoid his feelings... slash _

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He let himself in with the key that he had neglected to return, almost tripped over a pile of books stacked in the doorway; he fumbled for the oil lamps to give him some clue as to the whereabouts of misplaced chemicals, bear traps and loaded guns. The sudden light bore him witness to the state of his old home, worse now than ever before, the floor held scorch marks and chemical stains. There was clutter everywhere, piles of books and papers littering every surface as far as the eye could see, shattered glass and empty bottles in every corner. He sighed heavily not quite sure where to start, there's a pile of unopened letters next to the fire and he knows they're the ones he himself sent. He briefly wonders who it is that's avoiding whom,

It's silent in Baker Street, silent as the grave, no gunshots, no small explosions, no bulldog snorting in the corner, no violin. He thinks the silence might drive Holmes mad and tries not to look at the small worn leather case that's no more than arms length away from his friend's chair. He knows that he should have come earlier, that there's been cases, been days and days where he hasn't eaten or slept and pulled at his hair until it falls out in his hands. He knows there's been days of nothingness, days of unlabelled bottles and an ever faithful glass vial and syringe. He knows that he's hurt him, that he tried to explain as best he could, put it all down in writing and he just assumed that it would be fine, but now he thinks it's far from it.

_It has never been fine, _

He bites at his bottom lip, runs a hand across his face and paces the well worn floor, he's had no case for a week, nothing to keep his mind focused and entertained, nothing to puzzle and no one to amaze. He wonders what he's been doing, the fire's been lit, the embers not quite dead, the ash cooling even now, he sees the detective sprawled before it, staring into the flames as if trying to win a staring contest or discover what exactly it is about the flames that captivates him so. He stares at the bottles and see's them joined to his friend, an ink stained hand clasped around the slim neck and tobacco lips pursed hungrily to the top.

He notes the chemicals that are tossed on the floor, the broken glass beside it and he can imagine Holmes tossing it aside when it frustrates him and does not create the right reaction. His gun lies on the table by the door and there's not a single bullet in the device, Watson knows that the shells are probably lodged in one of the walls surrounding him. There's untouched tea by the window, just one cup and he can see the pain as the Detective stares at it from the floor, as if the very china had betrayed him. As if the nectar within were poison,

_What have you done to yourself Holmes...? _

It's been raining for days and he's been using that as an excuse for his reluctance to come, he hates himself for being so pathetic and the leather of his gloves creaks softly as he clenches his hands into fists. He knows where Sherlock Holmes is now, he knows so well he thinks he could walk there with his eyes closed.

He's not sure how long he's stood there for, staring out of the window as the rain tumbles from the heaven's and dances upon the glass. It could have been minutes or it could have been hours, the door opens downstairs, the faint sound of the bell jarring because the man slipping in knows exactly how to calm its sharp ring. The footsteps on the stairs are slow and heavy despite the obvious attempts of silence.

The hinges creak when the door is pushed open and blue eyes turn to face the man half slumped against the frame. He's holding his stomach, smiling his trademark smile; his eyes are haunted, weighted down by the need for sleep. His frame is slimmer than before, his hair flat against his head with a mixture of sweat and rain, his hands are stained with blood and tobacco and there are chemical burns leading up into the sleeves of his jacket. Though he doesn't look terrible for any of it, he looks like Holmes, and Watson tries not to think about how much he's missed the sight of Holmes because it means more than he'd ever care to admit.

"Watson, I knew it was you, how are you fairing old boy?" The Doctor smiles and turns from the windowsill stalking towards his younger friend.

"Better than you it would appear, what have you been doing Holmes?" Though it's not really a question because he knows and he would bet his life than Holmes knows that he knows. The Detective smirks a wicked smirk and hisses slightly when his companion grabs his arm, all but dragging him into the apartment and closing the door with his foot.

"Be gentle with me Watson," he half whispers as the elder male shoves him into his chair,

"You should have asked that of the man you were fighting Holmes," He's pressing on his friend's stomach checking for bruises and internal bleeding, Holmes barks at him and slaps at his hands, groans when he presses on skin that's far too tender and Watson smirks to himself slightly. "You will live," he announces seconds later standing back from his friend and leaning against the desk to his left.

"Yes, well, that is such a relief Doctor, I believed myself to be staring death in the face," blue eyes rolled,

"These boxing matches will be the death of you; you are terribly reckless old boy," Holmes seems far more interested in the substance beneath his fingernails than Watson's words and the elder male crosses his arms over his chest in frustration. Silence consumes them, "do you not even care to know why I am here,"

"You know I always care to see you Watson especially since your visits have become so infrequent," there's a carefully concealed edge to his words, so sharp they cut with the barest of touches, Holmes is good with words and Watson enjoys the way his companions lips form the syllables even with the bite to them, even with the pain it strikes deep down inside his chest.

"Holmes..." it's a prelude to a much grander speech but the Detective silences him with a wave of his hand as he pulls himself from his chair, all laboured movements and heavy bones.

"No excuses Watson we are both gentleman and know that you have other commitments to attend to now, your practice and Mary, it would be selfish of me to allow you to give up your time to care for me," Watson thinks Holmes is brilliant in his self pitying deception, he almost has him tearing up, then he notes the slight overacting, then the true emotion buried in those jet black eyes and he's close to falling apart.

"I have neglected our friendship and I am sorry for it but please do not hold this against Mary," ink black eyes speak volumes and Sherlock grips his pipe lighting it and inhaling deeply, Watson's eyes never stray from him,

"Well if it were not for Miss Morstan then nothing would have changed would it, not that it matters now, still, you never said, what has brought you here so late in the evening?" He puffs on his pipe, his eyes roaming Watson all the while, looking for any flinches at his words of any tell tale reaction that will give the man's reasoning away. There isn't any, just that impeccably dressed gentleman leaning on his cane,

"You did not read any of my letters,"

"Did they hold terribly pressing matters? I have been ever so busy as of late," he's stood by the window now, wrapped in tendrils of smoke as he stares out at the rain and the black of the night, he doesn't like it when Holmes lies to him. The detective has always withheld information, that's just the way he is, but it's terribly rare, almost unheard of for the dark haired male to stare at his friend and lie to his face.

"I suppose not," he's in front of him then, inches away, ink black eyes ravaging him, pipe forgotten, he's looking for something in the frown on Watson's face, the shimmering in his eyes. The elder leans away slightly; Holmes raises an eyebrow and leans closer in response.

"Does it upset you Watson? That I haven't read your letters, you seem almost disheartened by it," there's a sparkle to those jet eyes, a challenge,

_Tell me of your pain Watson, I'll double it, can't you see it..._

"No, do you even realise the date Holmes?" he's changing the subject, Holmes wonders if it's intentional or if he's unaware of doing it himself. "It's December," the Detective seems un-phased by the information, simply replacing his pipe to his lips and Watson tries not to watch the curve of the others lips as the move ever so slightly to accommodate the object. "The 20th of December, surely this has some relevance to you old boy,"

"Of course," there are splinters of heartache playing across his features and Watson thinks perhaps he pressed too much, the Detective clears his throat and taps his dirtied fingernails against the arms of his chair. He's avoiding the elder's gaze yet the ink can't help the odd glances in the Doctors direction, "who doesn't, I don't see why that should bring you to my door Watson, should I get a tree? Perhaps we shall decorate it together though it will be a far cry from the grand thing Mary shall set up in Cavendish Place, and I shall have no guests to wonder at it, save for Clarkey of course and Nanny," and he's selfish because he's hurt and he blames Watson for it entirely. There's shattered fragment of heart in his lips,

_You left me..._

"Holmes, please,"

"Please what? Please forgive me, listen to me, pretend nothing has changed, perhaps nothing has for you old boy but it has for me," he's not angry, he's not shouting, his voice not raised at all, so Watson wonders why he feels so very defensive,

"I did not come here to argue Holmes," there's a flicker of emotion in the ink depths of the younger male it's gone too quickly for Watson to decipher it and the Detective says nothing, merely stares at Watson, waiting for the reason that he had come. "I wondered if you wished to spend Christmas with Mary and myself," Holmes is reading him now, eyes steeling into him, he's not sure he's comfortable with it, he shifts beneath the gaze leaning once again against the desk and tapping his cane against the floor. "Well?"

"Would it be appropriate? I believe it is your first Christmas with your wife then I assume her family will be joining you, hardly the place for myself, I do tend to make a scene,"

"You are not getting out of this one Holmes; there is no way that I will leave you to yourself for the whole of the holidays,"

"I wonder what Mary will say,"

"I have already discussed this with her,"

_Don't make me do this... _

The expression on the Detective's face says it all, he's almost pleading and Watson doesn't know what it is that he's so afraid of. He thinks he might be afraid that he'll embarrass his friend, anger Mary, offend the family, maybe it's something deeper maybe he's scared he'll drag Watson back down into the macabre, into his depravity. The Doctor has missed that depravity dearly, but he'll never say.

"You're coming Holmes," The younger runs a hand through his unruly black hair, tugs slightly in the way he always does when he's uncertain or thinking, Watson thinks he can see the cogs moving inside the other's mind, thinking of the perfect thing to say, the best excuse. "You have no case, your brother travels in the winter, we have spent every Christmas together for years and I will not see that change now just because we no longer live together. I couldn't bear the thought of you sat here alone,"

"Hm, well, I suppose I have no choice really, if you are so... sentimental about the matter," Watson rolls his eyes, watches the smirk that tugs at the younger's lips, it looks perfect on him and he's missed the expression more than he'd care to admit.

"Good," He smiles and stands brushing his coat free from any lint,

"Leaving so soon old boy?"

"Mary..."

"Say no more, I have things to attend to also," he turns then, his attention on the nameless chemicals scattered behind him, almost as though Watson has failed to exist. The Doctor sighs and leaves without another word, Holmes merely collapses back into his chair and stares at the closed door, listening to the footsteps walking away and the bell as he exits the door downstairs.

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_Well there's the first chapter, I hope it was ok and that for the most part they're both in character, please review and let me know if I should carry on, you'll get a cookie if you do, thank you!_


	2. Chapter 2

_**Sweetest Downfall**_

_**Disclaimer- **__I own nothing, it's very sad, _

_**Rating- **__M... for later chapters_

_**Summary- **__Watson knew that he could never escape Holmes, what he didn't realise was that he didn't really want to, so when he invites the Detective to stay with himself and Mary how long will he be able to avoid his feelings... slash _

_A/N – I just want to say a __**HUGE**__ thank you to all reviewers, you all left me such lovely comments and it really made my day to read them and see that people were enjoying my fic n.n much love to you all and feel free to take a cookie out of the cookie jar and for__**Lady Lupindawn **__who asked __the flavour of the cookies well... you can have the flavour of your choice because you reviewers were amazing and really made my day!_

_Also thanks to all who faved and put on their alerts I hope you're all enjoying this too, _

_Anyway that's enough babbling from me... here's the second chapter and I hope you enjoy it n.n_

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_Chapter two_

He arrives back at Cavendish Place later than he thought he would, the rain has drenched his clothes, falling now from his thick woollen coat to stain the floor. It's quiet at the grave and he's reminded of Baker Street, his mind convincing him that he can smell Holmes' unique scent, the mixture of chemicals and tobacco. The Detective was right in his deductions, his new abode is decorated to perfection, the tree's towering and covered with ribbons, the candles long since blown out where they would have lit it spectacularly.

Something about it isn't quite right, he can see Holmes crouched before a much smaller version, it's browning and the needles are dropping, Watson thinks it's far closer to a twig than a tree. His friend however looks ecstatic, decorating it with the most peculiar of things, empty bottles filled with his experiments that shimmer with the strangest colours; they dine at the Royale and drink like fish. It all fades into black, into the emptiness that surrounds him and for a moment he stands and closes his eyes tight desperately trying to remember the feel of Holmes' hair beneath his fingertips. He sighs heavily and stares down at his leather coated hands, there are footsteps on the staircase to his side, soft and uncertain, gentle as only a woman can be.

She coughs to bring his attention to her, thinking he had not heard her descend; he turns with a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes because he keeps thinking back to Holmes. They stand in silence for a while, Mary obviously waiting for him to say something, to explain himself; he never said that he was going out because he hadn't really known. He hadn't known he would end up in Baker Street, in Holmes' room, he just had. He knew she wouldn't like it, wasn't sure how he was going to tell her that Holmes was coming to stay with them.

"I was worried about you," she all but whispers, her hands folded neatly in front of her, the blonde hair pulled back so neatly, she is the complete opposite of Holmes in every way. He slips his hat from his head, placing it on the nearby table and begins to remove his coat,

"I know, I should not have left as I did my apologies dear, I found myself unable to sleep." He hangs his coat on the stand feels her gaze burning into the back of his head, it's not accusatory, it's accepting, pitying.

"How is he?" the gloves are slowly removed from his hands, placed beside the hat and he's wondering how to answer the question because he's not really sure. He seems alright, a little annoyed maybe, but he's still just Holmes, exactly how he's always been.

He doesn't ask her how she knows, he's not sure he wants the explanation, "Holmes is Holmes,"

"He never responded to any of your letters," it's not cruel, she just worries,

"He's been busy," he sighs and runs a hand through his hair and he knows that she's reading into his body language, she's almost as good at reading him as Holmes is but Holmes is a little better, able to know exactly how he's feeling from a mere glance. Mary loves him, that's how she can understand his slight mood changes; he wonders if it is merely Holmes' genius that makes him so good at it. "I invited him to stay with us for Christmas," he turns to see her eyes widen slightly and she wrings her hands together.

"You know my family are coming..."

"He shall be on his best behaviour," she doesn't seem impressed and he can hardly blame her considering their first meeting, "he has no one else, please Mary, you have your family let me have mine,"

"Though he is not really your family is he dear?" she's frustrated now, he can see it in the way she's stood and he walks over to her and takes her hands in his own, meets her eyes.

"It's been just the two of us for so long, I cannot abandon him now, do you understand, I would suffer far more than he at his absence." Holmes would no doubt spend the day with a syringe in his arm and a drink in his hand, that vacant expression steeling across ink black eyes, it pains Watson to even think about the things his friend does to himself. She sighs a melodic sound and he knows he's managed to convince her, a smile tugs at her lips and her eyelashes flutter slightly.

"Fine, whatever you wish my darling, just please make sure he behaves," he promises and places a tender kiss to her lips and for a moment they're chapped and taste of tobacco, he frowns and pulls back somewhat startled. Her hands grip at his in worry, eyebrows knotting, "is everything alright? Oh I hope you have not caught a chill in this terrible weather," he assures her he has not and sends her up to bed with the promise that he'll be along in a moment, seconds later he finds the decanter filled with whiskey and pours himself a drink.

_What is wrong with me Holmes...? _

He nurses his drink for a while, savouring the taste, he finds his mind wandering again, wondering what Holmes is doing now, sat in Baker Street, he can see him curled up beside the fire, bottle pressed to his lips, eyes wide. A hand will be across his bruised stomach, holding gently, eventually he'll sober, grab for his violin and pluck at the strings, morphing a well known tune into something new and vibrant. He'll fall asleep on that hideous tiger rug, his head propped up against its own, a blanket tugged up to his chin.

The last dregs of his drink tumble past his lips and he gently places the glass on the table top before he decides to make his way up to his bed.

By the time he enters his bed chamber Mary is already fast asleep, she's all grace and poise as she lies beneath the pristine white sheets, her hair falling around her in loose curls. Her skin ivory white, lips rose petal pink, she's so very different from Holmes, he can't understand why when he looks at her all he can think of is the Detective. He sighs and undresses slowly, shakes any thoughts from his head and clears his mind by the time his head hits the pillow.

_Watson... dream of me..._

Ink black eyes consume him just as they always have.

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He tries so very hard not to think about him and as he burns a letter in the fireplace he tries to pretend that it's not out of spite. He glugs back any spirits he can lend his hand to, lights his pipe and looses himself in the smoke. His mind drifts to Watson, how he didn't want to let him leave, how he had wanted more than anything to grip hold of him and keep him there, though that would have been selfish, Watson had made his choice.

He watched half heartedly as another letter burnt before his eyes, the paper disintegrating, the ink fading, they were just printed words, whatever was said, none of it held any actual value, Watson meant none of it. He couldn't really be sure of that of course but Holmes was selfish he wanted to ease his suffering if just a little. He felt the Doctor's hands against his skin and drank a little bit more. He growled slightly, he needed a case; he needed problems, stimulation, something to ponder over other than John Watson.

The thought of spending Christmas with Watson and Mary and their perfect little family gathering repulses him somewhat. The Doctor should have left him in his misery; it was far less complicated in there because now, for all his concern over Christmas involving Mary his heart skips a beat at the thought of being close to Watson for even the shortest moment of time. He hates the very contradictions that the doctor inflicts within his mind and heart and tries his very best to pretend his absence has not affected him quite as drastically as it has.

He rolls his eyes to the window; the rain has turned to flakes of snow, shimmering against the darkness and his thoughts are once again drawn to Watson, lying in his bed at home beside his beautiful wife. He hates the thought, it sends an ache thundering straight to his chest and the grimace dances across his face, Watson was never meant to leave him for Mary, it almost feels like a betrayal. There was no one in the world that understood him quite as well as his friend and yet the elder seemed so distant from him now, only hours before they stood and talked as if strangers.

Part of him wished his old roommate had never walked the path to their rooms, part of him hoped that he'd never come back because then it would mean that he truly didn't care, that he had moved on. Though he could never believe that now and the hope that Watson still wanted him stung more than the thought that he despised him, he gripped for his bottle of whiskey with shaking fingers, glugging the liquid in an attempt to drown out his mind. The brilliant mind that amazed so many, that solved so many cases when all hope seemed lost, that could solve any riddle, any problem no matter how improbable, sometimes, the tool of his trade was such a curse to him.

The weight of the violin seems balanced in his grip, it's so unlike everything else in his life and he strums the strings and hums to a song he swore he'd forgotten long ago. Watson had once sat beside him in his armchair, the paper held loosely in his hands as he professed that the way Holmes played it had made it one of his favourite songs. There had been a secret locked behind those steel blue eyes in that moment and Holmes had squinted in an attempt to read it but the doctor had lifted his paper and smirked and the detective had simply returned to playing. It was as if the moment had never actually happened.

He drank until he couldn't remember his name, plucked at strings until his fingers bled, he fell asleep as the fire was burning itself out in the hearth, steel blue eyes never once leaving his mind.

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He wakes later than usual, thin streams of sunlight filter in through the slight part in the curtains, he can't remember his dreams but he's unsettled by whatever it was they entailed. He pulls himself from the tangle of too white sheets, parts the curtains with a gentle flick of his hand and there's a thin sheen of snow on the ground, like icing sugar sprinkled too thinly over a cake. It had snowed last year as well; the flakes had caught in Holmes' hair as they had strolled through the streets together. Tobacco stained fingertips had caught the small perfectly formed gem and studied it until it had melted, succumbing to the heat of his hand. There had been a small smile on the corner of his lips as if there were a secret behind it all that Watson wouldn't understand. As if he'd worked out the very mechanism that kept the world moving and breathing.

Holmes was as captivating as the snow, as mysterious, as cruel and wonderful, no matter how much Watson tried, he couldn't pull back from him. He adored the detective; he worried for him, wanted nothing but the best for him and couldn't stand the thought of any harm befalling him. Though he knew that he had hurt the younger, as much as he wished not to admit it, deep down he knew he had betrayed him, abandoned him. There was an image burnt into his mind from the day he had left, sparkling ebony eyes that had tried so hard to shimmer with happiness a smile that seemed more of a grimace and an expression that begged him to reconsider, to stay. He couldn't answer than look, he had breezed away under the cover of Clarkey and the Detective had brushed past him seconds later without a word, his glasses covering his eyes and his gaze fixed to Clarkey's back.

Gladstone had come with them then, Mary had insisted and he had left Holmes with nothing, Nanny had watched from the window and he thought even her eyes were accusatory.

He wondered if that was the reason he had avoided Holmes, his guilt, he had worried for days about the Detective, believing him to be on a destructive downwards spiral. Desperate to ruin himself and purge his mind of anything that reminded him of his old friend, but he didn't really know what it was that had made him unable to face Holmes.

"John?" her smile was warm and she looked beautiful framed in the doorway, the long blue dress perfect against her skin tone and golden hair, never a strand out of place. "Is everything ok?" she worried for him too much and he felt terribly guilty over it, he was being silly, thinking too much about Holmes, the detective was fine, he had seen him not hours ago.

"Yes, yes fine, sorry my dear have you had breakfast already?" he began to dress, and she closed the door and perched on the edge of the bed, waiting for him to finish before she asked for his company.

"Not yet, I was hoping we might go out this morning, spend some time together before my parents arrive," he smiled and kissed her cheek whilst slipping his waistcoat on.

"Wonderful idea," he extended his arm and she clasped onto it with a bright smile. He's determined to focus on her and only her this morning, desperate to keep his thoughts from slipping to Holmes with his tobacco lips and macabre interests, Holmes with his ink black eyes and pale white flesh, his brilliant mind and haunting smile. He's fighting a losing battle before it's even begun and the worse thing is that he knows it...

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_...well... sorta grew a world of its own this chapter, I thought it would head in a completely different direction, oh well this is where it is (silly muses) but yes Holmes and Watson shall be together again in the next chapter so I apologise for this one and the lack of conflict between our two favourite men, _

_So extra cookies for those who review this chapter and a Holmes plushie ;) _

_A great big thank you to everyone who reviewed favourited and put this fic on alerts, you guys are amazing and I hope you enjoyed this chapter just as much n.n_

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	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you to all reviewers, I apologise for the late update, I've been snowed under with work recently and have struggled to even look at my laptop let alone use it, hopefully I'll get more chance to update from here on out, in the meantime, enjoy..._

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It's been three days since he saw Holmes, since he found himself stood in Baker Street with the Detective a mere breath away. That stack of letters by the fireplace and that damned Moroccan case a little bit more worn than the last time he had laid eyes upon it. He had spent more time thinking about that day than he cared to admit and he was beginning to realise that the light didn't sparkle quite as brightly in the ink black eyes any more. His initial plan had been to focus entirely on Mary for the three days that he had seen breeze by in a flurry of snow and ice. It had been a plan he had not been able to fill and his mind had kept slipping to Holmes, he couldn't explain it; since he had seen the Detective he had begun to worry about him more and more.

Mary's family had arrived a day ago and he felt exhausted with their presence already, he was beginning to realise the boredom of married life, he found it monotonous, he missed the thrill of the nights on the streets with Holmes. He missed the macabre, the grimy, deceitful streets of London. He missed the gambling and watching Holmes win a fight down at the Punchbowl when everyone else had bid on the guy twice his size. Most of all he figured he missed spending time with Holmes, watching as the cog's moved behind his eyes.

He had made the decision before he had even really thought of it, he would go to Baker Street and he would not leave without the Detective following behind him as if he were his shadow. He slips through the corridors of his house silently, desperately avoiding the prying eyes of his wife and her mother; he grips for his coat off of the rack, still damp from the snow he had been caught in the day before, though its warmth does not abandon him.

Outside the streets are beginning to cover over with white, there is a chill to the air, strong enough to seep into bone and he draws his woollen coat tighter in an attempt to stop his skin shivering, he notices that it fails to work and wonders if it's a result of something other than the cold. He flags down a hansom not far down the street and clambers in, his bad leg feels similar to lead and drags after him painfully, he detests the way the cold weakens it. The ride to Baker Street is slow and he rubs at his leg to prompt the circulation back and to nurse the scar tissue that seems to snarl in annoyance at the impromptu journey across the freezing London streets.

The snow is heavier when he steps out of the hansom, standing before the stairs that lead to 221B, to Holmes and his ink black eyes, his poison words and calculating mind. He is forever haunted by the realisation that he craves the younger male in a way he can't quite comprehend. Those seventeen steps echo in his head as he limps his way across them, he is suffering from the old injury so terribly today but he has not entertained the idea of turning back.

He's eager to lay his eyes on Holmes, eager enough he can feel it coursing through his fingertips as he grips the door handle, the silence within is tenuous and almost burdened to the senses. There is a texture to the air of Holmes' room; it's electric as it catches on his tongue. His steel blue eyes are searching now, they're observing like the Detective he so much admires, reading the layout of the room, the Moroccan case he so dreads the sight of has not moved an inch since the last time he allowed his eyes to ghost across it, the letters beside the fireplace are gone, yet there is ash bearing familiar handwriting slowly cooling in the hearth. Watson finds himself wondering what Holmes has been doing with himself these three days, how has the great Detective been passing his time, the experiments are haphazardly strewn across the table top, there is rage in the layout of those bottles and pain in the layout of the ones that are beside the tiger rug. There is the smell of Holmes here and he'll never admit that he took back several waistcoats that were far too small just to keep hold of a piece of his young companion.

There's movement behind him, it's quick and silent and blends to the shadows as if it were part of them, it's the scent that gives him away, that tobacco that he has never smelt anywhere else, unique solely to Holmes. He refuses to turn, feels the way a smirk tugs at his lips, as if his body is reacting entirely by itself and as the Detective nears he notes that there is a chill to his form, he's been out in the cold and Watson can't find a reason for him to have been out in such horrible weather.

"I know you are there Holmes, what I lack in understanding is where you have been," he turns now with a perfectly arched eyebrow and he leans against his cane because his leg is throbbing beneath his skin. Holmes' eyes are raking across his form and he gestures to a chair because he doesn't need to see a grimace to know that Watson is suffering. The Doctor sits in his friends chair and his leg seems thankful for the small comfort, he allows his eyes to breathe in Holmes now, stares at the tiny snowflakes that melt into his coat and hair, so white against the black.

"I believe myself to be remarkable Watson, there was a madman on our fair streets, hiding in the underground like a common rat and slaughtering women with the misfortune to pass him, I sought him out and apprehended him this very morning whilst the majority of London, including yourself, still slept." Watson frowns slightly,

"This was not a case?" Holmes seems to think on this for a moment and his ink black eyes roll from left to right as he searches the recesses of his mind for something other than his own brilliance.

"No I suppose it was not, but I was above the Punchbowl yesterday evening and I couldn't help overhearing the chatter from below, the most ridiculous of stories, they believed it to be the doing of a goblin you see. I do worry about the minds of our fellow countrymen but I suppose fiction to some is far more interesting than fact,"

"Holmes," Ink meets steel and for a moment he loses his place in his reciting of his story,

"Watson," he's in control again, his mind ticks beneath his eyes and he's thinking deadly things to counteract anything the Doctor may say to him.

"You just took up a case on a whim, no one persuaded you, no mother begging at your doorstep?" he eyes the elder wearily,

"I required stimulation; my mind begged for it, this place has been suffocating me," he runs a hand through his hair, fingers catching in the tangles but he pays them no mind. Watson thinks Holmes knows exactly how to affect him, how to make him feel guilty and as though he has done the Detective an injustice when really he has simply moved on. He did not marry Mary just to cause Holmes to suffer; he did it because he had to, because it was time to grow up.

"You were not injured?" He's checking with Doctors eyes, consulting from his chair and without Holmes' consent, the Detective stares back somewhat defiantly.

"Of course not, the culprit was nothing more than a coward, shivering in the gutters like a rat, despicable man, the Yard have him now." Three days, it took no more than three days for Sherlock Holmes to catch a madman that Scotland Yard hadn't even known existed, he was always amazed by the Detective, even when he ridiculed him and pretended that he wasn't because Sherlock Holmes could do extraordinary things and he could work out any riddle put before him, find the truth when all others were still looking for clues. "It's snowing again," he's beside the window now, leaning beside the frame, observing the world as it moved slowly before him.

"You're to return to Cavendish Place with myself this evening," an incredulous look was passed to him, the younger seemed somewhat affronted by the decision that had been made without his request, Watson smirked and stood, leaning against his cane for a moment before heading over to a drawer. "Shall I assist you with your packing?" The Detective's hand fall's on his own before he can open the drawer and Watson freezes at the touch.

"Packing, how long do you propose I stay for, Watson this is highly unorthodox, what will people say?" He's gripping now; his hand clamped around Watson's enough to cause discomfort, the elder does not reflect this in his face, secretly he doesn't want Holmes to let go.

"Well, the Christmas period of course, you may leave Boxing day if my company becomes completely unbearable for you, as for what people will say, when exactly have you ever cared about senseless gossip?" Holmes clears his throat and steps away; he glances at his hands, studies his nails, tinted with ink and bleached with chemicals, Watson stares after him all the while. "I know that you do not wish to come,"

He turns, they're face to face and Watson resists the urge to step back, "I see not the sense in inviting me or demanding my presence, you have sought it no other time, most happy with your _**wife**_, what do I matter to you old boy, you have wanted to leave me for years, you should be drinking to your freedom this holiday, not shackling yourself to me further."

"I want you there, we have discussed this, I miss your company and I would hope that you missed mine, it seems that you do not as you refuse to even meet my eyes." Just like he knew he would Holmes rises to the challenge, his eyes are dark, darker than they've ever been and there's danger lurking just below the surface.

"I have always been here Watson, you know I would never turn you away yet you have never so must as graced the hallway until this week and yet it is _my_ fault that we do not speak, it is _my _fault that you feel guilty," those blue eyes narrow but he's right and Watson bites the inside of his cheek as he ponders over the correct thing to say.

"I am making an effort Holmes,"

"I shall fetch a medal then old boy," there's anger in the way his hands curl in on themselves, Watson knows that it's best to diffuse the situation quickly but he does love to see Holmes riled up, words ready to cut and teeth clenched. There's a hand on the Detective's shoulder a second later, warm and strong, it's an apology and Holmes never turns down an apology from Watson.

"Please, come home with me,"

_XxxxXxxxX_

Holmes never knows what to pack, he never knows what he's going to need and he can't find anything when it's ordered, he glances across his room at nameless bottles that litter the floor. Watson is stood by the fireplace, he stares at the ash, pokes at it, Holmes knows what he's doing but he uses the moment of distraction to swipe his Moroccan case from its home and slip it inside his bag, he covers it over with clean shirts and borrowed waistcoats, with bottles of brightly coloured fluid and books with broken spines. He lights his pipe, pondering if he has forgotten anything but he is Sherlock Holmes and deep down he knows that he has not, though there is a feeling of uncertainty bubbling in his stomach that he cannot translate.

Steal blue eyes are on him now, they burn intensely and he tries to busy himself with the design of his pipe, he hates how unsure Watson can make him feel, how hurt. He can't stand the thought of having to sit and watch Watson pander to Mary's every desire, watch her touch him, kiss him, its pure torture and he hates the elder for forcing him to do it, can't Watson see how cruel it is, doesn't he understand.

"I spent a long time writing those you know," ash crumbles beneath his fingertips as he sits in the chair beside Holmes, the detective smirks somewhat, slips his pipe from his lips and stares at Watson, he knows he could tell the elder all the lies in the world and he wouldn't believe a single one.

"You should have not bothered writing them, you know me well enough to know that I would not read them," Watson knew that of course so what perplexes Holmes is why he wrote them in the first place.

"Come on, we should be going before we end up snowed in"

"Worse things have happened," Watson smirks but rises from his seat, he leans on his cane as he waits for Holmes to follow him the detective merely stares at his companion, at the slight smile on his lips, the way his eyes hold a sparkle. Holmes knows that he can make Watson far happier than Mary ever could but Watson doesn't wish to believe it, it's distressing for the detective, these feelings are misplaced and he cannot fully decipher them even now, it's far worse when he is near to Watson and he has the urge to refuse to go, to cling to his chair for dear life and pretend he had never met the Doctor.

He hates Watson for what he has done to him...

_I miss you... _

Despite it all, despite how he doesn't want to leave with the Doctor, how he doesn't want to see Mary, he rises from his seat with an amount of grace and poise people would not think him able to posses, he walks past Watson, pipe clasped in his hand and opens the door for his old friend. It's as Watson leaves, with that bright smile in place and the knowledge that he has won, that Holmes thinks he's far crueller than he ever thought he could be, he hopes Watson will forgive him for the things he knows he will do wrong, the things he will say, the casual insults, it's a coping mechanism, it eases some of the pain that flares in his chest whenever Mary places a tender kiss to the good doctors cheek, or when his hand rests on hers, Sherlock Holmes needs to be callous or else he is far too easily hurt.

Sometimes he thinks Watson forgets that he is human, that he feels, aches, that he sees more than the crime's he solves, that he needs more than a Moroccan case and an unfortunate murder to keep him functioning, he needs Watson, he always has, no one else can fill the doctors place. He tries to convince himself that he doesn't really need Watson, that it's all chemical dependency and synapses in the brain misfiring, it's not a real need, it's not a desperate desire, it's logic and simple solutions. He needs space, needs to remove himself from Watson and yet he doesn't ask why that hasn't worked before because he can't think of anything else to do and he doesn't want to believe that he's allowed himself to slip this far because he's certain that there's no way back from this.

Steel blue eyes are on him, trying to decipher him; he lifts ink black eyes and doesn't attempt to hide the contempt that bubbles within then, "Holmes?"

"Shall we be taking our leave old chap; surely dear Mary will be worrying herself over your whereabouts," and he doesn't give a damn about Mary, but he doesn't want those eyes on him, mixed with pity and guilt, he doesn't want to know that Watson cares about him, he shouldn't, Sherlock Holmes is nothing but trouble and pain, he's danger and the macabre in the flesh. Watson would surely perish if he stayed at his side but all the detective is waiting for now is someone to outwit him, some criminal with a hand around his throat or a gun to his head, he wonders if Watson will stand at his funeral and say heartbreaking things about him, will he suffer at the loss, cruelly, he hopes so.

The snow is cool on his fevered flesh as he waits for the hansom, he marvels at the snowflakes, their purity and fragility captures him in a moment of serenity. Watson's hand finds the small of his back seconds later and his mind is utter chaos again by the moment the hansom door swings closed.

_XxxxXxxxXxxxX_

_Ok so it's not my favourite chapter in fact it's far from it but I've been so busy with work that I haven't had a chance to update, apologies for that, so I must post this now with a promise that the next chapter will be far more explosive, interesting and exciting with a hint more of the slash and fluff we all know and love, so please bear with me and I'll try and update as soon as humanly possible, anyhoo, let me know what you think, cookie's for all, _


	4. Chapter 4

_I am so sorry that it has been months since my last update, I'm really having a bad time with my laptop at the moment, basically it died and was away being fixed for ages, then I got it back only to have it crash again, then I had it wiped and it turns out my microsoft word product key has been wiped so I can't use it, so yeah really bad times, so I'm so sorry for the wait hopefully someone's still out there to read this and I hope you enjoy and I know it's shorter than usual but the next chapter will be a lot longer to make up for it, sorry again!_

_XxxxXxxxXxxxxX_

Holmes despises Cavendish Place; it's exactly how he thought it would be, completely Mary, not a shred of Watson's taste in the marital home, so much so he found it hard to believe that the Doctor even lived there. He stops in the threshold and the elder ushers him inside, takes his coat and mumbles something about rooms, Holmes clutches his case like a child would a teddy bear, he wants to go home, he wants his Moroccan case, the kiss of a needle against his skin, he wants this unfathomable ache inside of his chest to fade away. He glances at Watson as the doctor removes his own coat, he notes the smile that holds at the corners of his lip and he hates him for this happiness and seeming quite so heartless.

_How can you not understand...?_

There are footsteps in the hallway above them, they echo with the gentle tap of a women's heeled shoe, Holmes narrows his case and relaxes his posture, he knows that Mary is coming to greet her husband, he traces her movements with his mind, blueprints of the house form behind his eyes even though he had never traced the corridors before. He steels himself now, blankness fills the ink of his pupils and he holds insincere words on his tongue for when Mary smiles at him with that sickly sweet smile and grips onto Watson like a leech.

She descends the staircase and when she comes into view the surprise that holds her face causes a smile to grasp Holmes' heart. Watson turns immediately a dog running to its master, he holds her arm tenderly and whispers sweet words that Holmes does not have the strength of stomach to listen to, whatever they are, they lighten her mood, she smiles at him and extends her hand in greeting. Holmes has always played his part perfectly, he thinks in another life he may have been one of the great actors on Shakespeare's stage, for he smiles warmly at the women whom he cannot stand, he brings her hand to his lips and places a tender kiss to skin far too soft and scented far too greatly that if fills him with the urge to sneeze, with his sincerest of smiles he holds her hand, meets her eyes,

"It is an absolute pleasure to see you again my dear, you look truly radiant this evening." Mary is like so many other women, she craves attention and compliments, tell her she is beautiful and for a heartbeat you are her best friend regardless of past experience, Irene is not the same, she knows her beauty and uses it as her best weapon rather than relenting to its weakness.

"The pleasure is all mine Detective, still I do wish my husband would tell me of his plans in advance, I had no idea we were expecting you this evening." There is no visible flinch to the word 'husband' yet inside his heart convulses at the mere suggestion of the word. He tries not to look at Watson even when those steel eyes bore into him, so desperate to read whatever is crossing his mind,

"I was just about to show Holmes to one of the guest rooms," she nods and smiles and steps aside, explains she has to check on her mother and disappears down the corridor, "Holmes,"

"It is a lovely home the two of you have here, you seem to have an abundance of space," he has always hated space, so desperate to fill it with anything he sees as being mildly interesting, Holmes loves disorder.

"Mary has done wonders with the place," Holmes smirks because he's been proved right and he enjoys nothing more than knowing that he's made an accurate deduction, he always thought his greatest fear would be to grow old and rusty and be nothing more than a shell of the once young, great, Sherlock Holmes, he's come to realise there is much more to fear and it always comes back to Watson.

He follows Watson like a shadow, the elder man mumbles about the house, points out rooms, there's his and Mary's and the detective tries to forget the information before it can fully be absorbed. He's stood in a guest room seconds later and can't really remember how he got there; there are none of his home comforts here, no tiger rug to curl up on when the world begins to crash in, no chemically burnt desk to study and experiment on, no bottles at arm's length to numb. There is not a single thing in the room that makes him think of Watson and he drinks in the sight of the Doctor as if hoping it will carry him through his stay.

"Holmes," he licks cigarette stained lips, places his case on the bed and stands like a lost child in the centre of the far too large room, "Holmes, is everything to your liking, you seem slightly pale," there's a hand on his shoulder, it migrates to his forehead, he bites at his lip and clenches his hands to stop them from reaching out and latching onto the elder's.

"Of course I am absolutely fine, though you know how attached I am to Baker Street," he glances up to meet Watson's eyes, ink black clashing with steel blue, he feels his reverie break almost instantly, "this is ridiculous Watson, I shall head home instantly," he reaches for his case and Watson grabs his hand to stop him, the case falls clattering to the floor, Holmes watches as the Moroccan case tumbles to the floor. He grabs Watson, pushes him away, uses the momentary distraction to kick the small case beneath the bed where he knows it will be out of sight. "Apologies old chap," he smirks and offers his hand helping the elder to steady his balance, Watson's looking at him with suspicious eyes, the elder offers his sincerest smile, "you were just about to stand on this," he lifts a gem into view it sparkles brightly, reflects the light in a similar manner to a diamond, though it's the deepest of sapphire, "a little something to say thank you to Mary for her hospitality,"

"She shall be most pleased with it, though you are aware that you needn't have spent so much,"

"I always felt terrible about how I treated her that night at dinner; I thought it would be useful in way of an apology," it's all lies, he's reading as if from a well rehearsed script when really he's making it up as he goes, he watches Watson, the way he willingly allows himself to fall for the lies when if he questioned it if even for a moment it would lead him to find the thing he dreaded the most, he knew how angry Watson would be if he found that case, but part of him craved Watson's anger.

"She will be thrilled Holmes, I will leave you to settle in," he feels sarcastic words on his tongue, swallows them like a bitter pill and smiles through cigarette stained lips, this is how Watson leaves him and when he glances out of the window the snow is just starting up again.

He buries himself in newspapers, in articles that would usually hold no interest to him; he tells himself that it's work and not blatant avoidance. He locks the door because it's easier to simply say that he was asleep than to pretend that he is actually happy to be where he is.

He looses himself in the kiss of a needle and is too far away to hear the knocking on the door hours later, the snow is piling up outside of his window now and the chill seeps through to enclose him in dangerously trust worthy arms. He thinks he wants to freeze out in the snow, he wants to close his eyes and feel how the ice burn his flesh, he wants to free himself, wants to understand. He's spent his whole life trying to discover what makes the world tick, what drives people to do the things they do to one another, he's seen terrible things, he's done terrible things and yet with Watson beside him it all seemed bareable, without him it's cold, it's truth, it speaks volumes about him, things he doesn't want to know. He has too much time to think in hours like this and the drugs and drink do little to numb the thoughts that crowd his head. He thinks of Watson as he watches the snow, it's his biggest mistake since following the Doctor here and the urge to run floods his veins, the desperation to head out into the snow and keep running until his feet refuse to carry him any longer. Watson will be the end of him, he realises this and yet he won't give him up, despite the pain and the tears that fill his eyes, the ache in the very base of his heart at the mere mention of his name. He holds to scraps of the elder, the waistcoats left behind that still smell so much like him and he feels pathetic, nothing like the Sherlock Holmes that he prides himself on being, John Watson makes him so weak.

He loves John Watson and it's crushing every ounce of his being...

_XxxxXxxxXxxxX_

_I am sorry it's so short but I had to post something after all this time, the next chapter will be twice as long and I hope it was ok, I know it's not my best, thank you and I will see you next time, next chapter will be a bit more eventful, _


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